


The Case of the Doctor's Coffin

by Maeerin



Series: Fairytales and such [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Drugs, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grimms fairy tales, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Overdosing, Post-Reichenbach, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case turns drastic when John is injured, and his condition worsens as Sherlock works in finding those responsible and staying by his side. As the case goes on, it looks more and more like a story from a fairytale. Will Sherlock save John before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Doctor's Coffin

 

“What the hell are you doing?” John yelled as he stormed down the steps from his room and marched into the sitting room. It was too early for this, but he couldn’t sleep now.

Sherlock turned towards him and sent him a glare, simultaneously setting John’s gun on the table with distaste. John hurried forward and clipped on the safety. He turned to the wall where Sherlock had been firing at, and noticed that some kind of mushy residue was on the wallpaper, and apples with holes in their core were on the sofa, forgotten about.

John turned to Sherlock, who had flopped into his chair, and glared at him.

“You’re cleaning that up.”

“Nope.”

“Sherlock—.”

“Don’t bother giving me a ‘talk’. I’m not a child, John,” Sherlock snapped at him, turning onto his side and curling his body into a ball.

John ran his hand through his hair and sighed. Sherlock had been in this mood for nearly a week. Nothing seemed to distract him long enough, not even Cluedo.

“I can call Lestrade again, ask about—.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and turned to his other side, showing his back to John. How could such a lanky man could curl up in a tiny spot and be comfortable?

John sighed again and pulled out his phone, deciding to call anyway. It was worth a try.

“Hey, Greg, do you, er, I don’t suppose you have anything for Sherlock?”

Lestrade sighed on the other line, which sounded more of a yawn than anything else. “Not at the moment, mate. I’ll call you if I get anything.”

“Right, thanks.”

John hung up, and then proceeded into the kitchen. After making himself a cup of tea, he reluctantly got to work in getting the mess off the wall.

*            *            *

It was noon, when John’s phone rang. Sherlock hadn’t move one bit, but the second John hung up, he looked over his shoulder, slightly raising an eyebrow.

“A case. Two victims, no sign of force entry,” John exclaimed. He hovered by the chair, and licked his lips.

“Do you want to take it?”

Sherlock seemed to ponder over it longer than usual, but then stood up gracefully, stretched, and headed to his room.

“I’ll be ready shortly.”

*            *            *

Lestrade had given John the address, and they had arrived rather quickly, despite being the middle of winter and a few inches of snow covering the city.

Sherlock sauntered into the house, going straight to the sitting room, where Lestrade was currently speaking with Sally. John could see the two bodies on the floor, with some kind of white powder over the coffee table.

“Overdose?” John asked.

“Clearly,” Sherlock said with irritation. He turned to Lestrade, glaring at him as he interrupted the two.

“You only just got this case an hour ago and seek my help this quick. Must be desperate.” Sherlock voice wasn’t mocking, but annoyed, as if he wasn’t the one being desperate.

Lestrade sighed. “You needed a case. Help yourself.”

“A drugs case. How risky of you.”

Lestrade shrugged. “I trust you.”

Sherlock turned around in a flourish and examined the bodies. John watched closely, paying half attention to his mutters as he looked over the bodies. The cause of death seemed rather obvious to him; it was just an overdose. Sherlock had agreed with him just a moment ago.

After about a minute, Sherlock straightened up.

“Not an overdose.”

John snapped his head up, as the officers in the room turned towards the detective.

“What?”

Sherlock looked at him, and then at the others incredulously. “Do I have to repeat myself?

Nobody said anything; Sherlock scoffed and began pacing around the victims.

“No forced entry, but there are foot imprints by the door, none from the police, since the cut of the shoe is from a dress shoe, which no one but I is wearing. The print was there when I came here, so clearly, not my print. Neither of the vics, as none of them have shoes on, and the shoes they do have are only trainers. They’re unemployed, officially at least, but have committed petty crime—.”

“Yes, we get that. But how does that have to do with this not being an overdose?” Anderson asked from behind Lestrade. Sherlock glared at him for interrupted, and continued.

“They’ve been dead for at least ten hours. There’s vomit, sweat—the woman became hyperthermic, her body tried to sweat it out, and the man had a seizure, going by the way his body is turned crookedly, meaning he died shortly after. The room’s a mess, but not from the intruder. The footprints stop by the coffee table, nowhere near the mess. At least one of the victims had panicked, a known symptom of an overdose. They may have hallucinated too; it’s hard to say. But the powder isn’t cocaine.”

“So what? An amateur tried making—.”

“No, no. It’s produced delicately, to appear like cocaine, but also to cause specific effects. The makers must have wanted it to be mistaken for cocaine, and by the time the victims blood is tested, it won’t matter anymore, because the makers would have covered their tracks by then. The drug isn’t the victims’ either; they stole it. The intruder was probably the original dealer, found them dead, then took what was left and fled.”

“Amazing,” John muttered.

“So how can this not be an overdose then?” Sally asked sternly. Sherlock looked at her, with a slight clench in the jaw.

“They barely took any. Not enough to actually overdose on. The needles,” Sherlock pointed to the table. “Are still half full, if they were intending on getting high they would have used the full amount. But no, they stopped midway, as the effects immediately began to happen. Whatever it was only lasted for a half an hour, before it escalated into a craze panic, then their blood pressures dropped severely they were dead within minutes.”

The people surrounding the detective gaped at him.

“You can’t have known all of that in one look. They haven’t had autopsies yet—,” Anderson started to say.

“But he’s right. I mean,” John cleared his throat as everyone turned their eyes to look at him. “The powder looks like cocaine, but slightly different, almost like snow rather than powder, and those symptoms would have happened in any kind of overdose. It’s not hard to claim that that’s what happened.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in the promise of a smug grin, but he kept it from growing, and looked at the officers.

“Send the bodies to Bart’s, and let me test a sample of each of their blood and I’ll let you know what I’ll find.” Sherlock said. Anderson opened his mouth to say something, but Lestrade cut him off with a stern look.

*            *            *

John sat at the kitchen counter, as Sherlock examined the blood, vomit, and other bodily fluids found at the scene. John was looking through his phone, for anything to do with drug overdoses that involved unidentified drugs, but didn’t find any.

“Perhaps Lestrade should send some case files. See if there are any other cases?” John suggested. Sherlock only hummed, and didn’t look up from his work.

Sherlock didn’t speak for another hour, as he waited for the tests to return and was going through the computer for whatever information he could find that John couldn’t. With a quick “John, come look at this” John was behind Sherlock, looking over his shoulder at a news article dating back two years ago.

“What it is?”

“An article about new drug cartels arising in Europe. There’s this one group they briefly mention, called Grimms Kartell—.”

“German”

“Yes. And they’re known for cocaine usually, and have ties with other separate underground networks. But just recently they had introduced a new drug called Apfelsamen or 7-snow, as it’s referred to in the streets. The former means apple seeds, but the slang term is unusual. The number just seems random. The drug itself is hard to come by, and the effects are nearly unknown about. Some say it’s just like cocaine, but stronger, and others say it’s not like the use of any other drug.”

Sherlock quoted the article and looked up a John, who was furrowing his brows.

“What kind of drug wouldn’t be used for a high? It’s not like a pain killer or something—.”

“I need more information about the group to figure that out, and see if there’s anything else about the drug, people involved, locations, everything.”

“Okay. So who do we call—.”

Before John could finish his question, footsteps entered the room, and the two looked in that direction.

“Ah, Mycroft, perfect timing.” Sherlock stood up and went up to his brother.

“Do you have it?”

Mycroft looked at him impassively. “I do. But—.”

“Give it here.”

“You want to be careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft said sternly. “There’s not much there.”

He handed his brother a manila folder. “I’m serious, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes, I owe you a favor, now go away.”

Sherlock walked away and began reading the file; Mycroft offered a strained smile to John, and then left. John turned to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

“What was that about?”

Sherlock sighed. “He wants to rub it in that I had asked for something from him this quickly in the case.”

Not exactly a full answer, but John only shrugged and waited until Sherlock was done with the file.

Nearly ten minutes passed before Sherlock spoke again, and as he did, he handed John the file and began posting some of the papers up on the wall where, just that morning, had been covered in blown up apples.

John skimmed the papers. There wasn’t much, and most of it was in Sherlock’s hand as he plastered the wall with them. He stood up and stood beside Sherlock, and looked over the papers, catching only a few names and locations, most out of the UK. The causes described of the drug varied, and were minimal, nearly describing any other drug known by the public.

“There’s nothing in there that has to do with the number—.”

“Number?”

“The number 7, in ‘7-snow’,” Sherlock clarified. “Try looking up anything significant with that number, especially if it’s German, and the drug. Remember, it has nothing to do with getting high. The name in the file, Liev Kingston, is a known associate in dealing drugs. We need to find him…”

“Okay. But the police have been after him for years, and no one’s gotten close—.”

“I can.” Sherlock didn’t elaborate, but John knew he was talking about his homeless network.

“I also need a larger sample, to figure out exactly what it does to the body.”

John shifted on his feet with unease. “…You’re not going to—.”

“Of course not, John.” Sherlock said quickly. John relaxed slightly, and sat back down at the table.

Just then, Sherlock phone rang, and he read the text swiftly, before spinning around and throwing his coat on.

“Kingston’s been spotted.”

John barely had time to put his jacket on before he had to chase after Sherlock. They took a cab to the outskirts of the city, and then were on their own, going through narrow allies and abandoned buildings, just as the sun was setting in the horizon.

“Should we call Lestrade?”

“No time.” Sherlock dismissed. John sighed and pulled out his phone. He quickly sent a text of their whereabouts, and sped up to catch up with Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John called. Sherlock stopped by a door, and motioned John to come closer.

John stood beside Sherlock, furthest from the door.

“You think he’s in there?”

“He is.” Sherlock pointed to a white powder along the threshold. He raised is hand to open the door, only for John to latch onto his coat, refraining him.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Lestrade?”

“He’s on his way anyway. Did he say to wait?”

John didn’t answer. Sherlock was right, and so John reluctantly let go of his coat as the detective opened the door.

They walked in, and the lights automatically switched on. John pulled his gun out and kept it lowered but at the ready. He kept the door open and stepped in. Sherlock had wandered the furthest in, looking around the room in a flourish.

The room was filled with bags of the white powder, and the air had a chilly feeling to it. John’s nose already started to become runny, and he sniffled.

“Don’t breath in too much,” Sherlock said. John sighed to himself and tried to ignore his tingling senses.

“Rather chilly in here,” John remarked.

Sherlock didn’t respond and continued looking around. The room looked like a laboratory, with stainless-steal tables and benches, and pristine tools and chemistry sets. The bags were lined against the brick wall, beside empty wooden boxes with an image of a black apple on the side.

“Apples?” John pointed out.

“Clearly.”

He ignored Sherlock’s tone, and looked at the design. It was strangely familiar.

“Looks like the poisonous apple…” John muttered to himself. Sherlock straightened up and looked at him, furrowing his brow. John looked at him, waiting for him to say something. He didn’t.

“You know…the poisonous apple, Snow White and the seven dwarves.”

“Is this some kind of popular trivia I have the fortune of not knowing?” Sherlock asked mockingly as he turned around back towards the room.

John sighed to himself and continued looking at the boxes. One was closed shut, and he opened the lid, finding it full. Instead of bags, there were small black boxes, resembling what he had himself in his closet.

“Sherlock…”

His voice was clear enough something had changed, and Sherlock immediately went to his side and looked at the box. He carefully picked up a box with his gloved hand and opened it. Just as John had expected, the box was filled with exactly nine bullets. They both looked to the large box beside it, where many bullets piled together. With a closer look, the two realized the bullets were empty of gunpowder and unusable.

John breathed in heavily and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock met his gaze, and opened his mouth to say something before.

A door opened from the other end, one they hadn’t checked yet, and a man resembling Liev Kingston walked in. The young man’s eyes widened, and without a second thought, he turned on his heal and fled. Sherlock chased after him, John right behind him with his gun.

Sherlock ran up a flight of stairs, closing in on him. The man led them up to the roof, but as Sherlock exited the door, he was tackled to the ground by another figure. John ran passed them and chased Kingston to the edge. Before he could reach him, Kingston climbed over the ledge and leaped, landing smoothly onto the other building. John looked over the ledge, but quickly realized he was out of sight.

Sighing, John turned to Sherlock, who was still struggling with the other man. John ran forward, raising his gun as he did so, but then suddenly, he froze, as Sherlock was pushed roughly against the ledge. The man ran off back down the stairs. John couldn’t seem to chase after him, as all he could see was Sherlock slowly loose his balance and fall backwards over the ledge.

Flashes of what had happened three years ago engulfed John’s vision, and then they were gone, and a tight ache shoved him suddenly back into reality. He focused his vision to find Sherlock below him, holding on tightly to his wrist and dangling in midair.

“John—.” Sherlock’s voice was strained, and he was trying to pull himself up to grab the ledge.

Adrenaline rushed through John’s body as he offered his other hand to Sherlock (where was his gun?) and pulled him upwards. He inhaled deeply as he pulled the other man up, but soon had him up over the ledge.

They toppled forward, and then John couldn’t catch his breath. He crawled away back towards the ledge, which he stiffly used to pull himself up to stand.

Sherlock had immediately jumped to his feet, and was now pacing around the roof, muttering to himself, and unaware of John’s state.

John clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut, willing for the image to vanish from his sight. But all he saw was Sherlock’s broken body, his eyes unfocused and dull, not what his eyes are supposed to be—a tidal wave of emotion that takes a hard eye of the storm to mask over. John inhaled slowly, but his chest didn’t budge, and he swayed on his feet. Sherlock’s voice was a mere murmur, which slowly vanished all together.

This hadn’t happened in a while; so long in fact John thought he had moved passed it. When Sherlock had first came back a little more than a year ago, John was furious. But it didn’t take long—a few days in fact—for him to find himself back at Baker Street. The first few months were tense, both of them barely saying a word. But eventually, they had gone back to normal, or at least, as normal as possible. Whenever John’s nerve was shot, he would leave for a walk, and then come back, and neither of them talked about it. When one of them would wake up from a nightmare, the other would comfort them with little words, and then go make tea or play the violin, whichever one it was that needed it. They never talked about it though; John was fortunate Sherlock didn’t bring up his panic attacks—they were frequent in the start, but like he had thought, it hadn’t happened in a while.

It was silent now, and the sound John never heard that day but had imagined it for two years was all he heard: the bones shattering against pavement, a skull breaking open and the genius it housed instantly gone.

A floodgate opened, and sound infiltrated John’s ears. It was a loud ringing at first, then shouting, and rough hands were grabbing at him, turning his body around and holding him to another direction.

John’s eyes shot open and he was face to face with Sherlock. His eyes were wide and his mouth was moving, but John could only process his name being shouted in his face, so he inhaled again, his vision blurring as he swayed in the detective’s arms.

“John!” Sherlock called again, and John heard it loud and clear. The cold wind tickled his neck and slowly his senses returned to normal, and yet he still couldn’t breath properly.

“Sher—.” John choked and he winced. An image of Sherlock falling flashed in his eyes, and he let out a choked whimper.

“John, breathe,” Sherlock demanded, but it wasn’t out of sternness. He was concerned; his eyes glistened against the moonlight, and he was paler than usual. John could feel Sherlock trembling, but then thought maybe it was just him.

“John…” Sherlock said again, softer.

John inhaled deeply, and he immediately felt relieved. His posture was still stiff, but his stance was stabilizing and he was starting to feel warmer. It didn’t take him long to realize what had happened, and he let out a shaky breath, swallowing down the tightness in his throat.

His face must have shown how he was feeling, because Sherlock was raising his hand and cupping John’s cheek before he could react. The touch was comforting, more so than he had felt in a long time. He leaned against Sherlock’s hand and closed his eyes.

“I thought—,” John started.

“I know,” Sherlock breathed. John reopened his eyes, and scoffed at himself as he could feel them stinging with tears.

Sherlock rubbed his thumb against John’s cheek, and then leaned forward slightly. John’s breathing hitched again, and Sherlock stopped midway. John tilted his head up; hoping it could be seen as a “go ahead”, but if he was wrong, and misread Sherlock’s intent, then he could tell himself it was to see Sherlock better, for whatever reason.

Sherlock bit his lip, and then leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to John’s forehead. John exhaled slowly, his heart beating hard in his chest he could feel all his blood rush to his face.

Sherlock leaned back, and quickly avoided John’s gaze as he removed his hands and stepped back.

“Sorry, I—.”

“It’s fine.” John interrupted before Sherlock continued to ramble. Sherlock looked up, flickers of hope glistening in his eyes before they hardened just enough to hide it.

“You—.” Sherlock let out a shaky stutter, trailing off, unlike his usual manner.

John swallowed nervously. “Yes.” _For a long time_ , he thought to himself.

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly. “Me too,” he whispered so quietly John thought he imagined it for a second.

John started to feel light headed again, and swayed slightly as he took a step forward before stopping. This night had become very emotional without planning any of it, and dammit he would have preferred plans. But what was said was said, and he wouldn’t dream of taking it back.

John and Sherlock looked at each other, both of them silently realizing the other’s meaning and intention, and slowly smiled in sync. John took another step forward, when a gunshot rang through the air.

Sherlock flinched, startled. He turned around, and looked but didn’t see anything, and then looked back at John, who was just staring at him.

John had felt it—of course he had. But his body seemed like it didn’t know what to do. He could only watch Sherlock’s eyes widen as they found the red spot seeping through John’s jumper into his hand that was lying over it, the spot where his medical knowledge told him was just below his heart.

Sherlock rushed forward just as John lost his balance. He crumbled forward into Sherlock’s arms, and was gently lowered, half of his body lying in Sherlock’s lap, and his legs out in front of him on the ground.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was broken, and John instantly disliked it.

“Pressure…” he muttered. He lifted a hand and indicated to the wound, hoping Sherlock would understand. Sherlock unwrapped his scarf with one hand and pressed it to the wound.

“Lestrade should be hear any minute. He should have heard the shot—.”

John stiffly nodded as his eyes drooped.

“No, John, stay awake.” Sherlock shook him roughly, causing him to groan.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m—,” Sherlock started.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said firmly. He looked up at the detective to meet his gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

All Sherlock could do was nod, as the door to the stairs opened, and time sped up.

*            *            *

The ambulance shook on the way to the hospital; the sirens were loud in John’s ears, and lights kept flickering from red to yellow to white. He was in and out of consciousness, one minute looking at Sherlock, who was sitting beside him in the truck, and the next, in the Afghan sun, desert sand surrounding him.

Pain shot through his shoulder and he screamed; a man appeared by his side, and started moving him towards what sounded like a helicopter.

“Hang in there, Watson,” James Sholto’s voice yelled. John blinked rapidly against the pain, his eyes burning against the sun and sand flying in all directions, scraping his skin.

“John.”

John groaned, and Sholto’s face reappeared in front of him.

“Hang in there, John.” Sholto’s voice was softer, and John gazed into his piercing blue eyes, and then he suddenly felt weightless.

There was another stab of pain, and the red and yellow lights were back, flickering in front of him. John could still feel the dessert against his body as Sherlock’s face formed in front of him.

John gasped and reached for him, but something held him back. He struggled, and whimpered, muttering under his breath.

“What are you doing here, Sherlock? It’s dangerous…”

Sherlock stared at him, uncomprehending, but he didn’t leave out of his sight.

“You’re not supposed to be here…”

John’s voice trailed off, and he went limp. The monitors attached to John beeped alarmingly, his heart beating too fast to pulse properly.

A medic placed a manual oxygen mask over John’s mouth as another cut his jumper open. He applied something to his chest before pressing the paddles to them. They yelled to each other, and then zapped John with the charger. John remained unresponsive, and the medics repeated their actions, giving him breaths and defibrillating him two more times before stabilizing his heart.

Sherlock remained out of their way, but couldn’t remove his eyes on John’s body, or even find the strength to move his hand and take John’s. He didn’t know what a touch would do to him; it’d make everything real, and he didn’t want this to be real. So he kept his hands to himself.

******************************************************************************

John was rushed into surgery before Sherlock could follow him into the A&E. Lestrade was running up to him from behind, and started speaking, but Sherlock wasn’t processing any of it.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade put his hand on the taller man’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. He only got the man to tilt his head slightly, and took that as the most acknowledgment he was going to get at the moment.

“Lets sit.” Lestrade led him to the waiting room, and had to gently push him against the chair for him to bend his legs. They sat in silence; Lestrade shifted uncomfortably for a moment, unsure what to say to the man. He had spoken to countless families after the loss of a loved one, but this was too close to home, it left him speechless.

After a few minutes, the doors to the A&E opened and Sally hurried in.

“Sir, we caught one of the suspects. Liev Kingston.”

Lestrade nodded, but before he could respond, or even stand up, Sherlock stood up fiercely and rounded at Sally.

“Let me talk to him.”

“Absolutely not,” she retorted, narrowing his eyes. She looked at Lestrade, and his sigh instantly told Sherlock it was out of the question.

Sherlock scoffed and turned around the face the inspector. “Kingston is part of a drug cartel, probably knows who else is, and responsible for the batches we found and for shooting John. He makes money larger than the both of you—.”

“No,” Lestrade said firmly, looking directly at Sherlock. He crossed his arms and stared him down. Sherlock’s façade very settling began to crumble, and he slouched back into his chair, pulling his legs up and tucking them up tight against his chest.

“Sally,” Lestrade turned to the woman. “Talk to Kingston. See if he can give some names. I’ll get a narcotics team to inspect the room Sherlock found.”

Sally nodded, and then left. Sherlock ignored the flicker of concern in her eyes as she looked at him, and focused on the uneven dirty tiles of the floor. Lestrade sat back beside him.

“You should get tested. Who knows what inhaling that stuff could do.”

“It wouldn’t have done anything. I tested it earlier, at the lab. You can only inject it or ingest it, maybe snort it, but breathing it in from a distance wouldn’t do any harm,” Sherlock said in a rapid whisper.

Lestrade only hummed, and they both fell silent for a couple of hours.

Lestrade left soon after the start of the third hour, insisting Sherlock call him when there was news, and made sure he had answered before he left. As he left, a black car pulled up to the entrance, and Lestrade blocked the curb, keeping the man between him and the car.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade greeted solemnly.

Mycroft looked down his body once, and then stepped closer, closing the door behind him.

“John still in surgery.”

Lestrade only nodded.

“Back to work I take it.”

“You know the answer. I don’t think Sherlock’s up for talking. Still have a few more hours to go.”

Mycroft stepped around him, and nodded. “Only checking in. Good morning Inspector.”

He walked away, only to suddenly stop and sneeze. He composed himself rather quickly, and continued walking to the entrance of the hospital. Lestrade grinned with amusement and headed to his car.

Mycroft stepped into the waiting room and silently sat down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock was staring at his knees without any focus, his fingers absently rubbing circles in his knee.

Neither of them spoke for several hours. Sherlock would never admit it, and only allowed himself this once to be grateful for his brother’s presence. It was oddly comforting not being alone while he waited.

A surgeon entered the waiting room and went up to Sherlock. Her face was hard to read, and Sherlock shakily stood up to face her.

“Doctor?”

“I’m Doctor Robbins. I was the lead surgeon for your partner’s operation. The bullet entered his chest and lodged itself beneath his heart. He lost a lot of blood, and his heart stopped beating half way through, but he’s in recovery now, and would be transferred to the intensive care unit in a few hours.”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “He’s going to be fine?” He asked for clarification, his voice hush and nearly shy.

“He should be,” Dr. Robbins said with a reassuring smile. “He’s starting to have a fever now, but we’ll keep an eye out. I need to speak with the inspector of the case, is he here?”

“No, he’s…”

“I’ll call him for you,” Mycroft offered. He stood and walked to the outskirts of the waiting room, pulling out his phone.

“Is there something else?” Sherlock could tell she was keeping something back, not necessarily on purpose though.

“Well, there was some kind of substance in the wound. It seemed it was part of the bullet, and had dissolved in John’s body. We took a sample and will have it tested.”

Sherlock eyes widened just as Mycroft came back.

“He’s on his way.” Mycroft sighted Sherlock’s appearance and looked at the doctor for an explanation. She repeated herself, and he too tensed up.

“The drug—,” Sherlock choked. He turned to his brother.

“The drugs we found—there were bullets, some empty, some not. They must have filled them in with this drug.”

Mycroft’s face hardened. “I’ll have someone test it, and work on an antibiotic. But only if that’s the case—.”

“That is the case!” Sherlock snapped.

“What drug is this?” Dr. Robbins interrupted gently.

Sherlock ignored her, but Mycroft turned towards her. “I’ll have someone update you shortly. The inspector should be here soon, where you can update him about the drug. Sherlock, sit down.”

Sherlock did, and then Robbins left. Mycroft sat beside him.

“When Lestrade gets here, I’ll update him. I’ll have people working closely on this Sherlock. I’ll keep you in the loop, but you’re not in any state to be—.”

“I’m fine—.”

“No, you’re not,” Mycroft said sternly. “Go and see John. I’ll let you know when I have the investigation going.”

Sherlock hesitated, and then stood up, but then he paused. Without looking at his brother, he said, “Let me speak to Kingston.”

Mycroft didn’t hesitate. “Fine.”

*            *            *

Sherlock slowly entered John’s room, but then stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of his friend. He was hooked up to so many machines and wires; he looked small and vulnerable amongst a bundle of alabaster blankets. His chest was uncovered, wires attached to stickers that laid over his heart and chest, and a thin bandage tapped over the bullet wound just below his heart. There were small tubes going into his hand and arm, leading up to bags of fluids, some clear and one half full of blood. A nasal cannula ran under his nose, and Sherlock noticed his forehead gleamed with sweat.

Sherlock sat down, keeping his eyes on the man in the bed. He kept his hands by his side as he waited.

He only waited for thirty minutes, before numbers on the monitor began flashing red.

Alarmed, Sherlock stood up, unsure what to do. Fortunately, a nurse quickly entered the room, followed by Dr. Robbins.

“What’s happening?” Sherlock asked roughly, the state of his voice taking him by surprise.

Dr. Robbins took a moment to listen to John’s heart, and read the monitor before answering. “His fever spiked. He may already have an infection, so we’ll take a blood test to see what kind before administering antibiotics.”

“But it could be the drug from the bullet.” Sherlock pointed out.

“It could. More tests will tell us what’s in his system and what we could give him that wouldn’t kill him. Unfortunately, we have to wait.”

Sherlock flinched, and then nodded. He sat back down as the doctor continued looking at John’s chart. The man in the bed shifted slightly, and Sherlock straightened up.

“John?”

John let out a heavy sigh, and attempted to turn his head towards Sherlock, only to stop suddenly and groan.

Sherlock quickly grabbed John’s hand and held it tight.

“John?” Sherlock tried again, raising his voice just slightly.

John opened his mouth but he suddenly coughed. He arched his back against the flat bed, and grimaced at the pain. Sherlock quickly filled up a cup of water, and set it down before standing and rising over John.

“Do you want water?” Sherlock whispered with uncertainty.

John inhaled raggedly and slowly slit his eyes open. He focused on Sherlock, and then blinked a few times before opening them wider.

“Sh—.” John coughed again, turning onto his side, and wincing in pain. Sherlock bit his lip and gently rested his hand on John’s shoulder. John shuddered, and continued to cough harshly. Dr. Robbins came up to the other side, and gently peered at John, flashing a light over his eyes and checking his temperature.

“Let’s try and sit him up,” she said.

She slowly moved half the bed up to a reclining position as Sherlock held onto John. John groaned from the movement, and his coughing resided. He lay back against the pillow, and absently shifted his hand until he found Sherlock’s.

Sherlock rubbed it soothingly, and started to sit back down, when John’s throat convulsed. He barely had the bucket in front of him before he retched, his shoulders shuddering and his body tensing from the extraneous movement.

“He won’t be lucid for a bit. You can leave if you want—.”

“I’ll stay here.” Sherlock said.

Dr. Robbins nodded in acknowledgement. “This is Margaret, she’ll be the on call nurse. You can call her in here anytime.” Margaret nodded in affirmation, and Sherlock only nodded in acknowledgement before the doctor and nurse left.

Sherlock helped John back against the pillow, and remained standing for a moment until he was sure John was back asleep, before sitting back down, keeping John’s hand in his own.

******************************************************************************

John shifted, a dull ache suddenly becoming present. He tried to move again, but only felt pain. His chest felt heavy and tight, and the rest of his body felt tired and worn out. He slowly opened his eyes, but then flinched from the light.

A voice spoke from beside him, and he tried again, managing to squint as the room slowly grew into focus.

Sherlock was staring at him, his eyes clear and his face calm.

John hummed and licked his lips. He heard Sherlock sigh, and then a slight grip on his hand. As he continued to wake up, he heard Sherlock talking, and started to process it.

“…Mycroft’s having it tested, so we have to wait and see.”

John furrowed his brows and focused on Sherlock. “What?” He whispered hoarsely.

Sherlock met his gaze, his eyes shadowing apologetically. “I, um, you were practically out of it for about four days. A lot has happened…”

“So I see,” John whispered. He closed his eyes briefly and tried to recall what happened, but only caught sight of fragments. He had been shot, and was taken to the hospital. There was something to do with Sholto though he couldn’t imagine why…

“John?”

John reopened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. “Mhm?”

“How are you feeling?”

John managed a small shrug. “Been better. Can you tell me again, what you were saying?”

Sherlock nodded. “Do you remember the drugs we found?”

John nodded.

“Well, it appears that whoever shot you put some of the powder in the bullet. It’s in your system, but the doctors aren’t sure if it’s all gone or if you have yet to show signs…”

“I thought the drug was fatal—.”

“Not this way, apparently not. I’m still not sure what the purpose of the drug is for, but I’ll figure it out John. And I’ll find the men who started this.” Sherlock was looking at him intently, and John gave him a small smile.

“I know you will.”

Sherlock smiled hesitantly, but it was strained, and then he continued. “You had a fever at first, but then it went away for a bit; Dr. Robbins thinks it’s an infection, but their still running tests. They did after surgery but couldn’t identify it. A fever for two days is worrying, but it’s still relatively a low one…” Sherlock trailed off and looked down.

John squeezed their interlocked hands, motioning Sherlock to look up. He did, however with reluctance.

“I’ll be fine. Did Lestrade get Kingston? Any leads?” John slowly asked. He was about to fall asleep again, but wanted updates, for he didn’t know when he’d be awake again and wanted to be kept in the know.

Sherlock nodded. “Kingston’s in custody. I haven’t spoken to him, but I was going to once I knew you’d be all right.”

John gave him a wider smile. “Well I am. I’ll probably have some water and then go back to sleep. You can question him, and then come back to tell me.”

Sherlock gave him some water, and then slowly stood up. “You’ll be fine?”

John nodded. “Yes. Now go.”

Sherlock took a step back, and then stopped. He walked forward and lightly kissed John’s forehead, before stepping back, taking in John’s reaction.

John grinned at him as his eyes began to droop. “Am I blushing?”

“Slightly. It’s probably just from the fever…”

John chuckled lightly and looked up at Sherlock. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, and then slowly left the room, looking behind his shoulder for as long as he could as he walked away until John was out of sight.

******************************************************************************

Sherlock followed Lestrade to the interrogation room, keeping his chin held high and ignoring the concerned and nosy stares.

“All right,” Lestrade stopped in his tracks and motioned to the door. “He’s in there. We’re lucky we got to keep him here on assault charges, but it’s proving difficult to tie him with the drug cartel, even with what we already have on him. All of it is circumstantial; he hasn’t been caught with anything. Go ahead, and talk to him.”

Sherlock turned to the door, but then was held back by Lestrade. He turned towards him with an expectant look.

“Look, this is the one time I will be watching. But I won’t interfere,” Lestrade said slowly. “Give him hell.”

Sherlock nodded and then entered the room. Without a word, he closed the door and then sat down, relaxing his body and leaning against the chair idly.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Sherlock began coolly. Kingston looked up at him briefly, before looking back down at his interlocked hands.

Sherlock widened his eyes a bit, observing his profile. He was fairly young, early thirties, wearing a t-shirt and department store jeans. He hadn’t shaved in nearly two days, and didn’t have a proper one in weeks. His shoes had been expensive, but were worn carelessly and nearly everyday, so he doesn’t care for them… _interesting._

Sherlock inhaled deeply and focused on the man.

“You’re guilty about something.”

The man’s head shot up and his eyes darted to Sherlock’s. He stuttered, then shut his mouth closed and looked away.

“You can’t tell me or they’ll kill you.”

The man didn’t respond, but Sherlock knew he was right.

“Fine then,” Sherlock leaned forward and placed his hands on the table, lacing them together. “I’ll tell you what I know and we’ll go from there.”

The man only inclined his head slightly, so Sherlock continued.

“You’ve been selling drugs since you were in your early twenties—just small amounts, here and there and under the police radar. You didn’t get tied into an actual cartel until just four years ago, to the group known as Grimms Kartell. Yes, I know the name so don’t bother acting clueless. The money must have been well, at least in the beginning, until you started realizing what they were doing. First you sold cocaine, but then you got more involved. Mistakes were made and people died. You felt guilty, and whatever you did, you couldn’t leave the group otherwise they would have killed you. Either leave and get caught by the police, or die, well, you chose to be blackmailed and stayed. You’ve made a lot of money over the years since, but you don’t use it. You’ve used some, your dress shoes a remarkable choice, but they haven’t lasted long have they, a six-month-old design with a hole in one of the soles. You could even afford a decent shave, but you haven’t gotten one in a while, meaning you’ve stopped caring about your appearance. Something must have happened 2-4 weeks ago to cause this sudden lack of care. Did someone close to you overdose? Was it your fault?”

“Shut up!” The man snapped. He blinked at his outburst and then leaned back against the chair, darting is gaze to the ground.

Sherlock smirked and leaned back, continuing. “The money makes you feel guilty. So answer me this, what kind of drugs are you selling that does horrible things that it’ll make a crack dealer feel guilty, hm?”

When the man didn’t answer, Sherlock clenched his fists. “Tell me!”

Kingston flinched. Sherlock stared down at him, realizing the man had slouched into his chair. His phone pinged and he pulled it out, scanned the text, and then looked back at Kingston.

As he sat back down, he spoke, lowering his voice.

“Charlie Pinkman.”

Kingston looked up, his eyes widening.

“How’d you—.”

“The government never destroys original files. You may change your name, but your real name is written somewhere. So why, why did you change you name?”

“He wanted me to,” Kingston said shakily.

“Who?”

“The man in charge.” Kingston swallowed and straightened up in his chair. “I asked why, and all he said was to continue the story. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he seemed a bit daft anyway, so I just followed directions.”

“Why Liev Kingston?”

Kingston shrugged. “Some people said it was part of the story. I didn’t know what he was taking about, and the less you asked the better. He was a strange man, even though I only met him once.”

“Give me a name.”

Kingston shifted and slowly met Sherlock’s gaze. He remained silent for several moments, thinking.

“Ronald Silken,” he finally said.

Sherlock stared at Liev. “He’s the man who recruited you.”

It wasn’t a question, but Kingston nodded.

“He chose my new name, picked the places where I’d deal, everything. I only met him once…”

“Did he say what the drug—7-snow, what it does? What it was used for?”

“He…there were other recruits when he showed us. Some had to leave…they couldn’t stand it.”

Liev shuddered, and pulled his arms forward across his chest.

“It was like they were going crazy in five minutes. We would meet up every few months for an updated version, and the symptoms took longer to show, but they were worse.”

Sherlock pondered for a moment.

_Silken isn’t his real name either…obviously has something to do with this “story” he wants to complete._

“Do you know what the drug was for?”

Liev looked down. “All I know is that it’s used to get information. It makes the user weak very quickly. Some of the complications were weakened immune system, the people they tried on died in a few days from simple virus—the flu, things like that. There’s a bunch of other symptoms, but it varied…”

Sherlock nodded in response, and changed his direction.

“Do you have any idea of this story Silken wants to complete?”

Kingston shrugged. “He kept mentioning it. I thought he was just a nutter.”

“Do you know who was on the rooftop with you?”

Kingston bit his lip. “That man, he…follows us around, rotating between dealers, making sure we’re following orders. I didn’t know he was following me. He was the one who shot your friend. He had taken some of the bullets—he wasn’t supposed to because Silken still wanted to test them, but this man—he tends to bend the rules. He has contacts to Silken and other groups…it’s like he does the duty work. He’s practically a slave, but wants to be there.”

“Name?” Sherlock asked coldly.

Liev shrugged. “I think his first name is Jacob. I’ve heard people refer to him by nicknames, like Gold, or M.M.”

“Just M.M.?”

Liev nodded.

“Where can I this Jacob?”

Kingston rubbed his forehead. “Um, I could led you to him. But I’ll need a deal.”

_That quick, huh?_

“Fine. Make it with Lestrade.”

Sherlock stood up swiftly and left the room without a second glance. Lestrade came up to him.

“Well, you were fairly easy on him. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“He didn’t shoot John. I’m saving my energy.”

Lestrade huffed. “Right, so—.”

“Kingston is barely involved. He wants a deal, and he’ll locate this Jacob Gold, who’s like Silken’s puppet. We find Jacob, we’ll find Silken.”

Lestrade nodded. “What about him—.”

“Like I said, he’s barely involved. Whenever the government has been on their tracks, it appears they would place Kingston in their sight, have time to cover up their tracks and manage to reel him in before he gets caught. Talk to him, take the deal.”

“Okay. But the drug, did he say what it does?”

“It varies…look, I got you two names. Can I go? I need to check on John.”

Lestrade didn’t hesitate. “Yeah go ahead. I’ll come find you once we locate this Jacob guy.”

“And I’ll have my homeless network keep an eye out,” Sherlock added as he headed to the elevator.

Lestrade began heading the opposite direction, calling over his shoulder. “Right. These are odd names—seems like they were from fairytales…”

Sherlock froze and spun around.

 _“You know…Snow White and the seven dwarves?”_ John’s voice echoed in his head.

“Lestrade!”

The inspector turned around, and was nearly tackled to the ground by Sherlock.

“Sherlock—what?” Lestrade huffed.

“Fairytales! What kind of fairytales did the names remind you of?”

“Er, Cinderella, Snow White—.”

“That one, what’s that about?”

Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. “Snow White…lives in the forest, meets seven dwarves, and is hiding from an evil queen…”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered. _Snow. Evil Queen._

Sherlock gasped and spun around on his heal, his coat bellowing from behind.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock called over his shoulder. “John knows!”

*            *            *

Sherlock hurried onto the Intensive Care floor, and headed directly to John’s room. There were a couple of doctors—Robbins and the other Sherlock didn’t recognize, and Margaret, the nurse—standing outside of John’s door.

Sherlock swallowed down his unease and walked up slowly to the orderlies. Dr. Robbins spoke gently before he could ask anything.

“John’s fever has increased, and his immune system is weakened. He’s showing signs of the flu, so we’ve given him some basic antibiotics but his body has yet to show a reaction. It could be the drug slowing down the process, or the drug itself is doing all this and making his recovery occur at a slower rate.”

Sherlock stared at her and stuttered.

“I was…only gone for an hour.”

Robbins’ face softened with concern. “Whenever you enter, you’ll need to put on a fresh set of gloves, mask, and plastic gown. You can hold his hand, but refrain from touching or getting near his face or chest wound. You can stay for thirty minutes, but then you’ll have to wait another couple of hours before you can go back in.”

Sherlock nodded and put on what he needed. Dr. Robbins opened the door for him, and then she and the others left them for privacy.

Sherlock stared at his friend. John was hooked up to what seemed like more machines, and he was paler, with a light gleam of sweat along his forehead and a grey hue over his face. He still had a nasal cannula under his nose, and his chest was still bare from any blankets.

John opened his eyes as Sherlock slowly stepped closer. His forehead creased as he smiled, greeting Sherlock.

“Hey,” John said drowsily. Sherlock hesitantly met his gaze, and John’s face slackened.

“Don’t look at me like that,” John said lightly. “It’s just a precaution.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, but remained silent. He didn’t know what to say; all of this was happening fast and he wasn’t even here when it started. He needed to find who was responsible, and needed an antibiotic before John got worse—how could he do both without the help of his blogger?

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock focused his eyes on John and cleared his throat.

“I just got back from questioning Kingston…”

John shifted to look at Sherlock better. “Did he say anything?”

Sherlock nodded as he took a step closer, until he was right by the bed railing, but he didn’t sit down.

“He was recruited by the leader of the cartel, and gave us his name, and his partner’s. Ronald Silken and another named Jacob. He also goes by Gold or M.M.”

John chuckled. “Odd names…”

Sherlock blinked and straightened up. “Yes, that’s why I came back. Lestrade pointed out the odd names, comparing them to fairytales.”

John nodded. “I can see that, yeah.”

“He mentioned Snow White, and you had mentioned that story back at the room where we found the drugs.”

“Yeah,” John inhaled deeply, but then coughed roughly. It took him a couple of minutes to catch his breath, and then he lay back against the pillow, and shifted his hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock pretended not to notice, and kept his hands to himself as he stared as John.

John recollected himself and bit his lip, shifting his hand back. “Snow White is a princess who lives in a forest with seven dwarves—.”

“Seven refers to the number in the slang term,” Sherlock offered.

John nodded. “It would seem so. ‘Snow’ is self explanatory, and the apple—.”

“That’s in the story?”

“The evil queen disguises herself as an old woman and gives Snow a poisonous apple. It doesn’t kill her, just puts her into a deep sleep until True Love’s Kiss breaks the curse. A classic damsel in distress story.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Kingston said that Silken wants to finish a story…so he has a drug named based off of a fairytale…are there other fairy tale motifs?”

John though for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “The cartel, what was it called?”

“Grimms Kartell, in German.”

“The Grimm brothers wrote Snow White. So there’s that…”

“Kingston’s name had been changed also, he was originally Charlie Pinkman, but Silken had him change it. I assume he did too, and Jacob.”

“Well, I haven’t seen the movie in a while but… I think one of the authors’ name was Jacob.”

“And M.M? Gold?”

John shrugged, and then he laughed. “Well, Kingston does sound like Queen—a name of royalty or something.”

The connection passed through Sherlock’s mind once, and then he went back, and looked at the name again.

“Kingston. Liev Kingston.”

“Yeah?” John furrowed his eyebrows.

Sherlock gasped. “Evil queen. Liev and evil have the same letters. Kingston is the evil queen!”

“Ok…but she was the antagonist of the story. You said Kingston was just a recruit.”

“He is. Is there anyone else higher up?”

“Not in this story, no.”

“What about others? They took the authors name and one fairytale; they may have taken others. What are some others?”

“Er, Cinderella—.”

“Any names in that that sound like the ones we know?”

“Not at the top of my brain. Why don’t you just read the stories? They’re not that long?”

“No time—.”

“Of course there’s time. It’ll be faster if you do rather than ask me, I haven’t read them or seen the movies in a long time—.”

“Because you could die if I don’t solve this, John!” Sherlock bellowed.

John stared at him. “Sherlock—.”

Sherlock held up a hand and took a step back. “I—.”

John shifted until he was sitting up. He winced from the movement but continued, and reached out a hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock flinched. John bit his lip and withdrew his hand.

“I’m not contagious—,” John whispered.

“I know,” Sherlock whispered back. “But I can’t—.”

John nodded. “I’m getting tired. Maybe you come back in a couple of hours, see what you come up with.”

Sherlock didn’t want to go just yet; John helped him to think, but it was hard to while he was sick. He wanted John better— _why did he have to get shot?_

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly began to sting and he blinked rapidly. He cleared his throat and looked up at John, who was lowering his bed and getting ready to sleep.

“I’ll research some stories. What else are there besides Cinderella?”

“Er, Rapunzel, Rumpelstiltskin, Hansel and Gretel…”

Sherlock gasped. He looked at John, but he was already asleep. He rushed forward and pressed his masked mouth over John’s hand in a hard kiss, and then turned on his heel and left, discarding the plastic gown, gloves, and mask as he headed back to Scotland Yard.

******************************************************************************

John winced awake, and noticed he was in a different room. His bed was on the right side of the room, the door on his left. The room was larger, with a small window on his right, and a closet. The bathroom was in front of him, and there was only one reclining chair in the corner.

He turned towards the door, and noticed a clear plastic curtain pulled all the way, serving as a border between him and the hallway.

John’s breathing pitched, as he immediately knew what that meant. He was a doctor for God’s sake. Of course he knew that he was in isolation, but what he didn’t know was why.

He reached for the call button, and a familiar nurse walked in.

“Everything all right?”

“Why am I isolated?” John immediately asked. The nurse—Margaret—offered a sympathetic smile.

“It’s just temporary. I’ll get Dr. Robbins here to explain.” She quickly left before John could say another word. His temper was rising, and the air seemed suddenly too thick to breathe.

Dr. Robbins quickly entered the room stooped just by the plastic wall.

“How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?”

“Confused,” John replied angrily. “Why am I here? Where’s Sherlock?”

“Your partner left a couple of hours ago, we haven’t been able to reach him.”

John figured. Sherlock could get so wrapped up in a case he’d neglect to answer his phone whenever it rang with a call. Hopefully he was getting somewhere with the case though.

“Why am I in here?” John asked again.

Robbins softened her face into the expression John had used countless times whenever he had bad news—not the end of the world news, but not pleasant either. “Your fever spiked again, and we haven’t been able to cool you down. This room is cooler than usual, but not too much. You are showing signs of the flu, and the tests show that your immune system isn’t working properly. We’ve given you some medication to improve it, but at this state you could be at risk of getting viruses and infections that could harm you.”

“You mean kill me.” It wasn’t a question, and Robbins didn’t correct him.

“You’re a doctor, so I’ll be honest with you, John. It’s not pretty. The inspector on the case informed us the symptoms of the drug you were exposed to, and we’re taking precautions. Unfortunately, it’s based off of one man’s statement, but you’ve been put as a priority and any extreme measures were authorized.”

_Bloody Mycroft._

“So what happens now?” John asked. “What symptoms should I start showing?”

“You’re at the first state. The next stage has to do with the brain. It’d be best to sedate you—.”

John shook his head quickly, and Robbins nodded with understanding.

“We figured you wouldn’t want that. We’re keeping an eye on your monitors, and suggest light physical activity. There may be seizures or hallucinations, or just nightmares, or even nothing.”

John nodded with understanding. “Can you…” he cleared his throat, suddenly feeling an uneasy feeling of being lonely. “Can you try to reach Sherlock?

“Of course.” Robbins left with a soft smile, and John turned back to face the wall. He suddenly needed Sherlock—even if he couldn’t feel him, at least he’d have his voice. That would be enough, wouldn’t it?

*            *            *

John tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair, keeping his eye focused on the entrance to his room. The sliding glass door remained closed however, and not a singer person walked in for nearly an hour since Robbins had left.

Someone had come in a few minutes later though, and was wearing a whole bodysuit and a large helmet over his head. John scoffed, and reminded himself that he wasn’t contagious, but other people were to him, so he had taken a few deep breathes, and then with the man’s help, sat up and slowly made it to the chair.

It had hurt, and he was glad Sherlock hadn’t seen it, but now all he wanted was to see the detective. He wanted to feel him, and knowing that a plastic barrier was in his way was driving him mad. He wanted reassurance as well, that being shot and drugged wasn’t the deal breaker between him and Sherlock—they were still together, weren’t they?

They hadn’t even kissed yet, which John was annoyed about, but at least his presence would be comforting, and maybe he should ask? There wouldn’t be harm in that, would there? Sherlock wouldn’t be having second thoughts, would he?

Movement in the hall caught John’s eye, and then Sherlock appeared, following Margaret to his room. Sherlock caught his eye through the door and barrier, but his face remained impassive, apart from the slightest clench of the jaw.

John suddenly felt nervous, and inhaled as deep as he could (his lungs were still sore from surgery) and waited until Sherlock was in the room, on the other side of the plastic, alone as Margaret left them in private.

Silence encased the room for nearly a full minute. Sherlock was looking around, and barely glimpsed at John before looking elsewhere. John kept his eyes on the man, waiting for him to say something. It had been a few hours since they last saw each other; surely he would have news about the case.

John cleared his throat. “Did you get anywhere with the case? Did the fairytales explain anything?”

Sherlock’s eyes focused on John. He looked at him for a few seconds, and then looked at the floor.

“Mycroft’s still having people work on an antibiotic. It should be ready in a week or so.”

John didn’t point out the change of subject. “Christmas is in a week; it’d be like a Christmas miracle.” He trailed off into a whisper, and lowered his gaze.

“The case—,” John started.

“It’s Moriarty.”

John’s head shot up, and widened his eyes. “What—.”

Sherlock was still avoiding his gaze, and John noticed his jaw and fists were clenching.

“Remember he…before I went away, the case with the ambassador’s missing children?”

John nodded slowly.

“Hansel and Gretel,” Sherlock added.

John recalled the case, and then with realization, gasped.

“He’s part of this?”

“Apparently, one of his networks, or actually, one person in particular got under our radar and reorganized a group, the Grimms Kartell.”

“So Moriarty’s still dead though?”

Sherlock nodded. “The man, Ronald Silken, wants to finish the story. When you told me some of the stories, well, Hansel and Gretel was one of them, but Silken chose a different one. It seems to be Snow White, but without an actual apple.” Sherlock’s tone had lightened, and John offered a small smile.

“Well have you located him? Any leads?”

Sherlock shook his head, and paused for a moment. “How are you?”

John looked away. “I can feel it…” he paused. “I can feel something is wrong inside of me, but it hasn’t done anything. Kingston had written down the symptoms he had witness, gave it to Lestrade who gave it to the doctors. They told me what I could expect, so it could be any minute now.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the barrier and put his hand on it. “I…”

He trailed off and lowered his gaze. John slowly stood up, wincing but refused to stop, and then took the cane they had given him for standing. He limped slowly to the barrier, and stopped in front of it. He could nearly hear Sherlock’s breathing, but couldn’t feel it. He raised his hand and placed it over Sherlock’s, the plastic serving as the only barrier. He could slightly feel Sherlock’s hand, but it just felt like plastic, and there was no warmth to it.

“I’ll be better soon, yeah?” John asserted. “Just a few days, a week or two at the most…”

Sherlock nodded, his curls bouncing up and down. John bit his lip and looked around.

“It’d be nice if this was more decorated for Christmas…I don’t know if it’s allowed but I’ve always loved Christmas decorations…”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I can ask the nurse about it.”

John gave him a small grin. “It’d be nice to have a mistletoe…because then I could stand under it and kiss you—through the plastic at least…”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered, and for a moment John felt unease. But then the detective grinned, and his face softened.

“I’d like that. When you’re out of here I’ll pepper you with kisses…to catch up.”

John smiled. “That’ll be nice.”

Sherlock smiled back for a moment, and then it slowly fell. John’s smile did the same, and they remained standing in silence for a few moments.

John cleared his throat. “I need to sit back down…”

“Right, yes, go ahead.” Sherlock lowered his hand. John kept his there for a second and then slowly turned around. He limped towards his bed, but then stopped in his tracks, his back slowly going rigid.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “John?”

John glanced around, and looked at Sherlock briefly before looking towards the ground.

“Sh…” John slurred and swayed on his feet.

Sherlock straightened up, raising his hands onto the plastic as if willing them to move. “John. John, look at me.”

John did but then swayed again.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was strained, and Sherlock paled from the sound of his tone; he shouldn’t be sounding scared.

“John—.”

John stumbled and he lost the grip of his cane. He leaned against the bed as the cane fell to the floor, and he grabbed at the sheets, attempting to pull himself up.

Sherlock looked around for the call button, and once he found it, pressed it. He looked back at John, who was staring at him, his eyes glistening.

“Sher…” John trailed off, and his eyes fluttered close. He collapsed to the floor and remained still on his side, as the numbers on the monitor started to blink red.

Sherlock bellowed for help as he clawed at the barrier. There was an opening somewhere; he just had to find it—.

Sherlock grabbed hold of the opening and tugged it, only to be dragged away by rough arms.

“You can’t break the seal, sir—.”

“Let me go! He needs help!”

Sherlock struggled against the orderly. “Someone is dressing in the proper attire—.”

“John doesn’t have time—.”

The monitor beeped as the numbers dropped to zero, and Sherlock stared with widened eyes as he saw the heart line become flat.

He twisted out of the man’s grasp and began attacking the barrier, only to be tackled down by two more men. Sherlock struggled as two figures walked in wearing a suit and helmet.

“Get him out of here!”

The men dragged Sherlock out of the room and closed the door. As soon as it was shut, the people in the suits opened the barrier and stepped into John’s room, closing it quickly behind them.

Sherlock caught Dr. Robbins’s face in one of them, and watched as she knelt down John’s body and began starting compressions to his chest. Sherlock stayed on his knees, nearly pressing his nose to the door as he watched them beat John’s heart.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, and after what seemed like several minutes, the numbers on the monitor began to rise, and heartbeats were appearing on their own.

The doctors lifted John back into his bed, and then placed an oxygen mask over his mouth. They stayed there for several more minutes, before leaving and reclosing the seal.

They exited the room and closed the door before taking off their masks and facing Sherlock. Margaret appeared beside Sherlock and helped him to his feet.

“How-how is he?” Sherlock choked out.

“His heart stopped and we’re not sure why. We’re going to send someone in to run an EKG before we can allow you back in. You can wait in the hall, but it’ll be some time before we can let you back in the room. He may have been exposed to the outside air, and we just want to make sure he doesn’t show signs of a virus.”

“It’d show that quickly?”

“It’s hard to say because of the drug. We’re only doing what we’re doing based off of protocol. Most of it are just precautions.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and shuffled his feet. “Can I, er, get some decorations? We were talking about it before…”

“Yes, of course you can. By the time you come back, we should be done.”

Sherlock nodded his gratitude and slowly headed to the elevator. He looked over his shoulder, and stared at John, who was lying still in bed, looking far paler and sick than he had just an hour ago.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the elevator, making a mental list of what he needed.

*            *            *

Sherlock took a step back and looked around the room. There was tinsel framing the sliding glass door and along the outer rim of the plastic wall. There was a reef on the door, on the part where it wouldn’t fall off if it were opened, and another on the wall, diagonally from John’s bed but not inside his room. There were lights hung along the wall and parallel with the tinsel on the plastic. Sherlock had taped holly over the both walls, and even managed to place a small plastic Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with red and gold ornaments, lights, and a star on top. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, proud of his work, and slid his chair to the plastic barrier as close as he could get it, before sitting down.

He looked at John, who was still sleeping with an oxygen mask over his mouth. He’d been like that all night, and the sun was just starting to rise, it’s dawn rays peeking through the blinds of the window across from him.

Sighing, Sherlock turned around and faced the wall on this right; he had brought everything he had on the case and taped it to the wall, well away from the rack that had bags and tubes hanging from so it’d be easy access to give John whatever fluids he needed.

After he had left John to research the fairytales, he had realized the connection to Moriarty. It didn’t seem like it had anything to do with burning his heart, like the consulting criminal had planned, but whatever Silken’s motive was, he had connections to Moriarty, and a odd obsession over fairytales—so much to even change his and his recruits’ names.

The problem was that Sherlock didn’t know what he needed to do. He had to find Silken and Jacob, but he already had his homeless network looking and they had come up empty. Lestrade was looking as well, and it was no doubt Mycroft had kept an eye out. There was nothing though—no new overdoses, no whispers, nothing. Sherlock couldn’t seem to think straight—whenever he was in the hospital, he wanted to be working on the case—he had to solve it, for John. But whenever he was out, all he wanted was to be with John. So bringing the case files and notes seemed like the only option, except there weren’t any leads!

Sighing with frustration, Sherlock pushed aside the papers and leaned back against the chair, running his hands through his wild curls.

John shifted in the bed, and Sherlock quickly sat up and looked at him. John stilled, and then his head moved slightly, and a raspy groan escaped his throat.

Sherlock stood up and stepped closer, grazing his nose against the plastic.

“John?” Sherlock whispered carefully.

John inhaled deeply and his eyes fluttered open. He looked straight ahead for a few seconds, and then his eyes fluttered closed again.

“John…” Sherlock whispered, hoping John would turn towards him. John’s eyes moved under his lids, and he turned towards Sherlock. He opened his eyes slightly, and looked at him, but his gaze was unfocused for a few seconds.

John blinked a few times and focused on Sherlock; he inhaled deeply and then sighed.

“Sh’lock,” John slurred. His throat convulsed and he coughed roughly; he reached for the mask with a shaky hand and pulled it off his face. He licked his lips and closed his eyes for another moment, before focusing back onto Sherlock.

His eyes were more open, and he looked over the plastic wall in between him and his detective. His eyes started to glisten, and his lip trembled. He sniffed, and looked towards the ground, furrowing his brows.

Sherlock swallowed tightly. “What do you think of the decorations?” he asked softly.

John let out a shaky sigh and shook his head. Sherlock looked at him, and creased his forehead.

“John?”

John shook his head again and squeezed his eyes shut, but Sherlock already saw some tears leaking out of the corners and running down his cheeks.

“I can take them down—.”

John inhaled sharply. “No…” he choked out. He ran his hand over his face and wiped the wetness away, and then clenched his fist. “They’re great…”

Sherlock slightly relaxed his shoulders, and remained quiet. John continued to breathe deeply as tears still leaked out of his eyes. He kept wiping them away, and clenched the bed sheets as if willing them to stop.

After a couple of minutes, John let out a choked sob and turned on his side, revealing his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked around, trying to think of something he could do. He turned back to John, and cringed when he saw his shoulders shake and shudder.

“John—.”

“I—.” John tried to speak, but gasped and trailed off.

Sherlock grew intensely worried. “What can I do?”

John shuddered. “Make it stop. Please…” he voice broke and he curled up tighter.

Sherlock pressed his hands against the plastic, hating it with all his might. He tapped his fingers gently against it, thinking, when John went rigid.

Sherlock stared in horror as John started to fidget, and it took him far too many seconds to realize he was having a seizure.

“John!”

The monitor beeped an alarm. Sherlock bellowed for help, and didn’t waste any time in reaching for the seal. He pulled it open and rushed to John’s side.

John was thrashing on the bed, saliva dripping from his chin. Sherlock kept him on his side and held his gently just as Margaret entered the room.

“What are you doing?” She quickly placed on a mask and gloves, and rushed in.

“You need to leave, you can—.”

“Help him!” Sherlock demanded. Something in his eyes must have been fierce, because Margaret stopped in her attempt to take him away, and proceeded in gathering whatever John needed.

She came back with a syringe, and then injected it into the IV tube on John’s hand. John slowly relaxed, and the numbers on the monitor went back to normal. Sherlock rubbed his back soothingly, but then firm hands pulled him away by the shoulders.

Margaret ushered Sherlock out with some force and resealed the plastic barrier, just as Dr. Robbins came rushing in.

“What’s happened?”

“He’s had a seizure, and Mr. Holmes here broke the seal—.”

“He what?”

“He could have choked or hurt his neck!” Sherlock interrupted, glaring at the doctor. “I wasn’t just going to stand by and watch.”

“We have people on stand by with the suits ready—.”

“They take too long to put on!” Sherlock snapped. “There must be something else you can do, he’s…” Sherlock trailed, his voice suddenly becoming shaky. He cleared his throat, and continued, fortunate neither of them had spoken above him.

“He started crying when he woke up—panicking too I think. It could be a symptom, but it could also because he needs to be touched. He needs to feel someone and this drug is making him agitated. Now is there something else we can do?”

Robbins looked at Sherlock and then at Margaret. She thought for a moment, and then spoke.

“There may be, yes. We’ll run some tests, see if it’ll be okay. But there is something else.”

Sherlock nodded his head for her to continue.

“His kidneys are starting to fail, which is a sign of septic. His lungs aren’t looking so good, and eventually, we’ll have to put him on a ventilator.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and took a step back. He glanced at John, who was already starting to shift, no doubt waking up.

“What’s your idea?” Sherlock asked hoarsely.

“We can put him in a smaller bubble, almost like a coffin. It’s like an adult incubator; it’ll have two holes for arms to go in so it’ll be easier to administer drugs to the IV tube in his hand, and to check his wound. The ventilator tubes can go through another hole, and that way, the seal won’t be such a hassle. It’ll be best if we put him to sleep—.”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “Do all of it but that. He doesn’t want that.”

“He may need to be. If his lungs get worst, we would have no choice.”

Sherlock nodded. “Okay, but not yet. I’ll ask him what he thinks…”

Sherlock took a step back and turned around to face John. John was inhaling with his mouth open, and occasionally he winced in pain.

“John?”

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. His lips twitched into a grin and his eyes twinkled.

“Hey…what, er, happened?” he asked hoarsely.

Sherlock bit his lip. “Your heart had stopped last night…and then you had a seizure. It’s been a couple of days…”

John comprehended this and sighed. “That’s not good is it…”

Sherlock knew it wasn’t a question, but nodded anyway. “You don’t remember…”

John shook his head slightly. “I remember some crying…was that me?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s embarrassing.”

Sherlock looked up at John, and found him smiling at the detective. His face wasn’t as paler, and he looked a lot healthier.

“You feeling all right, John?”

John nodded. “Yeah…not so bad. You don’t look so good yourself. Is there, er, good news?”

Sherlock didn’t respond right away, and at the look of his face, John’s face slightly fell.

“Or bad news?”

“Dr. Robbins thought about another way they could protect you from any viruses or infections. It’ll make things easier if you needed emergency help…”

John furrowed his brow. “What is it?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “An incubator. Sort of. It’s…”

John nodded quickly. “I know what it is.” He sounded defeated, and Sherlock swallowed tightly.

“It’ll just be temporary.” John reminded him.

Sherlock nodded, but then quickly looked away, his throat suddenly constricting. His eyes began to sting and he inhaled deeply, but then sighed shakily.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and wiped his face, only to find his cheeks were wet. He wiped his eyes and then turned around, but John’s face told him he knew what he was trying to hide.

“The room looks nice. You did a good job,” John said. He smiled, and Sherlock smiled back, but it felt too strained and forced.

“I’ll be fine,” John said again, his voice firm. “When will I be…” he trailed off, but Sherlock knew what he was talking about.

“Tomorrow. They want to run tests but if you improve by then, maybe you won’t have to. But the doctor is also worried about your kidneys, and your lungs…”

“I may have to be put on an ventilator,” John provided. Sherlock nodded.

John swallowed and briefly looked away before he looked back at Sherlock.

“You’ll stay, when they…close it.”

“Of course.”

John nodded with thanks. “At least I’m not claustrophobic,” he said with a small laugh.

Sherlock laughed lightly and fell silent.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Will you…get your violin? It’d be nice to listen to something…”

“Of course. I can have someone—.”

“You can go yourself, Sherlock. Besides, I’m about to fall asleep again, and you look like you need some fresh air.”

“I’m fine, John.”

John gave him a lightly stern look, but he didn’t stop grinning.

“Go on, I’ll still be here.”

“Whenever I leave you tend to get worse.” Sherlock had meant to sound light, but his voice broke, and he looked away.

John shifted up in his bed and raised it upwards. He lay back against the pillow and looked intently at Sherlock.

“I’ll. Be. Fine,” he said again. “Margaret will be close by. I’ll just doze and you can wake me up with some Christmas carols.” He smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock grinned back.

He hesitantly took a couple of steps back and retrieved his coat. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I have no doubt.”

Sherlock slowly left, and looked at John through the clear door until he disappeared into an elevator.

******************************************************************************

John watched Sherlock disappear behind the elevator doors and then reached behind him and pressed the call button.

Margaret appeared with a soft smile. “Everything all right?”

John nodded. “Will it be possible if I can get a pen and piece of paper?”

“Of course. I’ll have to scrub before I can enter.”

John nodded, and watched her leave. She reappeared after a few minutes, and handed him what he needed.

“Writing love letters are we?” She teased as she resealed the barrier.

John grinned to himself, and hoped it didn’t look sad. “Something like that.”

He slowly wrote what he wanted, and then folded it in half before placing it under his sheet right where his arm would lay. He lied back against the pillows and easily fell into a light doze.

*            *            *

John woke with a start, a murmur of pain running through his chest. He groaned and slowly inhaled, but the pain only increased.

He reached for the call button, but the movement increased the pain even more, and his heart rate began to rise.

The monitor started beeping quietly, and Margaret appeared in the doorway. She walked to the barrier and then put her hand through the hole of the plastic barrier; she pressed her gloved fingers to John’s throat and checked his pulse.

John took in short breaths as he tried to catch his breath.

“Everything all right?” Margaret asked.

“It’s getting hard to breathe…” John sighed.

“Here…” Margaret reached for the nasal cannula and arranged it under John’s nose. “This may help.”

It didn’t subside the pain, but the access to oxygen was better. John sighed back against the pillow as another nurse entered the room.

“Ah, perfect timing. John, I’m going on my break. This is Regina, and she’ll be the nurse on call. If you have any questions or just want someone to talk to, you can talk to her.”

John glanced at Regina and offered a nod of acknowledgement. Regina smiled back, but didn’t say anything.

“Do you want something for the pain?” Margaret asked.

John shook his head. “I don’t want to be too out of it.”

“We can give you something settle, just to numb it.”

John inhaled deeply, and then winced. “Yeah, all right.”

Margaret told Regina to get the right dosage, and then she smiled at John before she left. Regina came back and immediately injected the pain killer in John’s IV.

“This should kick in soon. You may be asleep by then.”

“That’ll be nice,” John muttered.

Regina left with a soft smile, and then soon enough, John began to feel drowsy. It became easier to breathe just as he slipped into a doze.

******************************************************************************

Sherlock moved the bow gently against the strings of his violin, starting off slowly into a melody. He only played for a couple of minutes, before John shifted awake and blinked wearily at Sherlock.

“That was nice,” John complimented. Sherlock smiled at him and finished the short song before resting the instrument back in its case.

“I can play again if you have trouble sleeping.”

John glanced out the window, and noticed the sun was just starting to set.

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow…” John remarked. “Any news from Mycroft?”

Sherlock lowered his head and shook it. John didn’t pry and relaxed against the bed.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said as he sat down.

John turned towards him. “What are you planning on doing with the case?”

_Oh, that._

“Er, just wait and see, I guess.”

“Yeah, I figured. But waiting isn’t your forte.”

Sherlock looked at him intently, and when he didn’t respond, John continued.

“Look, you don’t have to wait here with me all day. You could go out and…I don’t know, follow some leads.”

“There aren’t any.”

“Well, then find some.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “You don’t want me here…”

John shook his head. “No, I do want you here, I just thought…” he trailed off, and sucked in his cheeks. “You seem bothered by all this. I just thought maybe you’d want a break. I wouldn’t be upset or anything…”

“So you do want me to leave?” Sherlock’s voice had become harder, and his face was just slightly becoming impassive.

John shook his head again. “No, that’s not—.”

“I’m can’t do it, John,” Sherlock said, raising his voice slightly. John stopped midsentence and stared at the man. Sherlock looked at the ground and clenched his jaw.

“Sherlock…” John trailed off.

“I can’t—.” Sherlock tired to say what he wanted, but his voice broke and he trailed off. He avoided John’s gaze, and listened to the footsteps as the nurse walked in.

“Good evening, John. Would you like me to give you another dose?”

Sherlock turned around to face the unfamiliar voice, and looked at the nurse. He turned back to John, who was nodding.

“Yeah, maybe a little.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Are you in pain, John?”

John shrugged. “It’s just a little hard to breathe, that’s all.”

Sherlock waited until Regina had left, and then looked at John. John looked at him, his eyes soft.

“I think I know how you feel, Sherlock. But I want you to know it’s okay to leave and solve the case. I’ll be fine. You must be bored—.”

“I’m not, John.”

John scoffed lightly. “Then what’s bothering you? Please, talk to me.” John inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. “All I want,” he started in a whisper. “Is to hold you…and kiss you, but I can’t. So please, just talk to me, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock started at him, and then slowly relaxed in his chair.

“I just need to find Silken and Jacob. They’re the ones behind this, they did this to you.”

John nodded encouragingly. “Okay. Do you know where to start?”

“I have people looking. Lestrade’s looking, Mycroft’s looking—.”

“Any other overdoses that match the ones we found?”

Sherlock shook his head. “The drug isn’t used for a high. It was an accident that the victims had stolen it and mistaken it for cocaine. The difference was rather obvious, but to an idiot, not so much.”

John smirked at the hint of Sherlock’s familiar tone, and continued.

“Kingston had said it was used to get information right? Like a manipulative device?”

“Possibly. It creates all sorts of effects, from panic to fear, and confusion, not to mention symptoms that cocaine induces. They had been perfecting it, trying to have the symptoms take its time in appearing—.”

“Excuse me,” a small voice spoke from behind.

Sherlock turned around to see Molly slowly entering the room.

“Hello, Sherlock. John.” She nodded to the both of them, and then looked at John. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right,” John responded.

“Good. That’s good.” She turned to Sherlock. “I just came by to see how you two were. Oh, and I did the autopsies on the victims, and I think you should take a look, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned to John, a question on his face. John nodded.

“Go on.”

Sherlock slowly got up and put his coat on. He turned to John and looked at him with longing.

“I’ll be back soon.”

John smiled softly. “And I’ll be waiting.”

Sherlock exited the room and walked past Regina, and followed Molly to the morgue. She spoke along the way, but he didn’t hear completely what she was saying, as something was starting to feel off.

“Here we are,” Molly said, bringing Sherlock back to the present. She removed the blanket off each of the victims. “I thought it was odd, the drugs they used isn’t like any other, is it?”

“No, it’s a new kind. Not meant for recreational use.”

“Right. Um, well, I just thought it was strange; the lungs on both of them are damaged quite severely, almost as if they were smokers or in a fire of some sort, but their histories say they weren’t. And their kidneys, it’s as if they had shut down on the spot. Um, well you can take a look, see if you see anything…” she trailed off bashfully, and took a step back. Sherlock placed some gloves on and examined the male victim’s chest cavity and organs.

“He had a seizure right before he died…” Sherlock absently said.

“Er, yes but he died of a heart attack.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “What?”

Molly shuffled her feet. “It was a heart attack that killed him. And the woman died of a heat stroke. Quite odd really, in the middle winter. But the drug must have overheated her body and his heart must have worked itself too much. I mean, they were fairly healthy up to this point.”

“Erm, yes…how odd.”

“What is the drug used for then?” Molly asked.

“To get information. Manipulation. To induce panic, fear—.” Sherlock cut himself off and gasped.

Molly was startled and took a step back. “What is it?”

“Baskerville!”

Molly furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

Sherlock stepped back and began to pace, placing his fingers under his chin. “John and I worked on a case a few years ago, before the Reichenbach Case. There was a drug that was used to stimulate fear; it distorted reality and made the intoxicated person fear whatever they saw or heard. This drug is being made to torture people, just like that one, but it’s different. It can easily fool an ordinary person as simple cocaine, but it won’t be sold in the streets. It’s only for manipulation. Then why would Silken go through all that trouble? Why have apples on the boxes. Why have the bullets—?”

Sherlock froze in his step and inhaled sharply. _That’s how John was infected—the bullets in the room that had been empty: most of the gunpowder was replace by the drug, and it would cause the same symptoms. But how was it still causing symptoms? John should be better now, shouldn’t he?_

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock ignored the voice and continued to think. _Something’s not right, there’s something I’m missing, what is it? It’s been about four days, John’s had a fever, some confusion, a seizure, but that’s it. Why is it different? Was it a different formula? He’s better now, will he continue to get better or will he get worse? Maybe it’s like a virus, stays in the body like it’s a host…or maybe he keeps being exposed to it? Maybe it multiplies in the body, maybe—_

“Sherlock,” Molly said firmly.

Sherlock spun around and found Molly by the phone, her face stricken with horror.

Without a word, he raced out of the morgue and ran up the five flights of stairs to the intensive care unit. He yelled for people to get out of the way as he sped down the hall, colliding into people but not caring about any of them. He came to a halt in front of John’s room, and watched in alarm.

John was thrashing in the bed, his face red with tears streaming down his cheeks. He was curled into a ball and faced the door, then clutched his head. His back and shoulders shuddered, and Sherlock noticed Margaret and Regina were speaking to him in turns through the barrier.

Sherlock hurried inside and came up beside them.

“John, look, he’s here. Sherlock is here,” Margaret said softly.

John let out a choked gasp and curled in on himself.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked anxiously.

“I-I don’t know, after I gave him some pain meds, he was fine for a bit,” Regina stuttered. “But then he started to have chills. I turned up the heat just slightly, but then he started to sweat, so I turned it down. He then began to mutter—it seemed he was talking to you, but then he mentioned someone named Sholto, and then a James, and then you again. I tried to talk him through it, but then he panicked and ripped his IV out. We haven’t been able to sedate him.”

“John,” Margaret raised her voice. “Look at me. John. Sherlock is here.” She motioned to Sherlock for him to come closer and so he took as step next to her.

“John?” Sherlock said. John whimpered and squeezed his eyes.

“N-no, stop it. Stop it!” John begged.

Sherlock’s lip trembled and he pressed closer to the plastic.

“John.” He raised his voice. “I’m here, look at me, please. John?”

John opened his eyes and glared at the three of them. Tears started falling down his face as his face became furious.

“He’s dead, stop lying to me!” John scrambled out of bed and walked to the wall until he was face to face with Sherlock.

“Sherlock’s dead—he left me! Stop doing this and let me go, please!”

Sherlock hit the plastic, sending John to flinch away from the blow.

“It’s me John!” he yelled. “I’m right here!”

John sniffled and climbed back into bed. He lied against the pillow and clenched his eyes shut. He inhaled deeply, but then fell into a coughing fit.

Sherlock hit the plastic again, and turned to Margaret. “Can someone go in there? Sedate him—.”

“We tried sending some in,” Regina spoke up. “He attacked them.”

“Well then send someone in faster. Something needs to be—.”

Alarms rang from the monitor and Sherlock turned back around to face John. John was hunched over, and vomiting over the sheets. He was clenching his stomach, and then he quickly flopped back against the pillow, arching his back and clenching his teeth in pain.

Margaret seemed to have made up her mind, and quickly pulled on a plastic gown, gloves, mask, and hair.

“Regina, get these on, and get a new IV kit. Sherlock, you can come in too, but wear these. And page Dr. Robbins!”

Sherlock hurriedly put on the plastic attire as Margaret closed the door and then broke the seal of the barrier. She rushed to John and ushered him back to bed. Sherlock hurried to the other side, and grabbed his hand.

“John?”

John groaned loudly and opened his eyes slightly. He opened his mouth, but then choked, and sat up, retching again over the blanket.

“Dammit,” Margaret muttered. Regina entered with a new IV kit, and gave it to Margaret. She then went to the closet and brought out a bucket and a fresh blanket. She handed the bucket to Sherlock, who quickly removed the sodden blanket and placed the bucket in John’s lap.

John retched again, and leaned heavily against Sherlock’s shoulder. Margaret removed the broken IV tube, and then reattached the line to the new one in his hand. She then placed a stethoscope in her ears and placed the end on John’s back. Regina fell silent, and Sherlock held John still has he breathed in ragged breathes.

“His lungs aren’t sounding good,” Margaret remarked.

“What can we do?” Sherlock stuttered.

“We need to calm him down first, and see if he becomes lucid. If he doesn’t…”

“What?”

Margaret sighed. “We may have to intubate him.”

Sherlock shook his head rapidly. “No, he’ll be fine. He can breathe on his own—.”

“He may not be able to,” Margaret clarified. Sherlock shook his head and buried his masked face in John’s hair. John was still taking deep breaths, and leaning against Sherlock, clutching at his gown and muttering incoherently.

“He’s really warm…” Sherlock pointed out.

“We can try to cool him down. I’ll get another bucket and a cloth,” Regina said.

Sherlock slowly withdrew John from his hold and laid him down. John rested against the pillow, wincing from the pain, and breathed in slowly, keeping his mouth parted. His eyes darted from Sherlock and the nurses, not focusing on either of them, as if he didn’t recognize them.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and took the bucket and cloth from Regina. He set the bucket on the edge of the bed, and dipped the cloth into it. He squeezed the excess water out and then gently wiped John’s forehead, keeping the cloth pressed against his skin for a few seconds before going down to his neck.

John’s eyes fluttered and he shivered.

“This should calm him down just right…” Margaret whispered as she injected a solution through his vein. John relaxed even more, and the tension in his body eased away. He sighed contently, and blinked wearily up at Sherlock.

Sherlock stroked his hair with his gloved hand, and held John’s hand with his other. Regina and Margaret tidied the room up, and then resealed the barrier as they left.

Sherlock kept stroking John’s hair, rubbing the cloth gently over his skin for several minutes. John fell asleep under his touch, but kept breathing with his mouth open, his face wincing once in a while from pain. He was looking grey and had a thin line of stubble along his chin. The skin around his eyes was puffy from crying, as well as his nose. Sherlock wanted to take the mask off his face and kiss John—anything to make it feel better. But he couldn’t risk it. John’s immune system was still weak, and any contact with another human being could put him at risk. Just him stroking his hair and holding his hand was risky enough.

Time ticked by, and it was fully dark and nearly midnight when John shifted awake. Sherlock had to leave for a couple of hours, and had come back in fresh plastic attire. He was standing by John’s left side, holding his hand.

John inhaled as much as he could as he turned towards Sherlock. He opened his eyes and let out a shaky breath. Sherlock smile at him, relief flooding him now that John was awake.

“John…” Sherlock breathed.

John’s mouth twitched and his eyes lit up. “Sherlock…”

“How are you feeling?”

John huffed but then winced. “Exhausted. And confused. I’m not…really sure what happened.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re awake now, so…”

John licked his lips and his face slackened. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock cringed. His voice had turned serious, and he had an idea what was coming just as John started to speak.

“It’s getting harder to breathe,” John said slowly. “Sherlock, they may—.”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, raising his voice. His eyes flickered apologetically once he saw John flinch. He continued though, with a quieter voice. “You can be all right without having to be sedated—.”

“It’s not just—.”

“And Mycroft has people working on a antibiotic or something. It’ll clear out the rest of the drug and it’ll make you better, John—.”

“Sherlock.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “It’ll make everything easier. You won’t have to sit behind that plastic wall, and it’ll only be—.” He took a breath, and winced. “It’ll only be until the antibiotic is ready. Only a couple of days, right?”

Sherlock looked away, his eyes flickering with anger. “John—.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked and blinked rapidly. He stared into John’s eyes for several seconds, mesmerized by the green ocean against a stormy blue sky.

After a moment, Sherlock slowly nodded. “You want to be…”

John nodded once. “Please—.” His voice broke and he swallowed. “Earlier I…felt like I was losing myself. I knew you were there but I couldn’t see past it…”

Sherlock stroked his hair and then stood up. “I’ll get the doctor.”

*            *            *

_Silent night ~ holy night ~ all is calm ~ all is bright._

The lights around the room glistened gold against the grey and white hues of the hospital room. The tinsel and wreath were removed from the plastic barrier and placed along John’s bed, the wreath being placed above him on the wall.

Sherlock held John’s hand as Dr. Robbins stood by his head. They had given him a small dose of morpheme, so he wouldn’t feel the tube as they put him on the ventilator. John looked at Sherlock during the whole process, and kept his hand in a tight, assuring grip as they tidied everything up.

John noticeable relaxed, and then his chest was moving on it’s own, the faint hisses from the ventilator encasing the tense silence.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

Sherlock kept his eyes on John and his jaw clenched shut. Emotion was swelling instead of him, but he kept his face still and didn’t walk away.

Dr. Robbins and the two nurses came around to his side.

“All right, Dr. Watson, we’re going to close the incubator now.”

_Love’s pure light ~ radiant beams from the holy face_

John looked at Sherlock and gave his gloved hand one last squeeze before letting go. He slipped his hand under the sheets and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it, and read the front.

_Sherlock – You’ll know when to read this._

Sherlock pocketed the paper and nodded to John. John’s eyes welled up and blinked rapidly. They kept their eyes locked on to each other as Robbins and Margaret slowly brought the lid over John’s body and sealed it shut.

_With the dawn of redeeming grace_

“We’re ready to sedate him,” Robbins whispered.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded. The doctor injected the sedation serum and slowly John’s eyes fluttered closed, the stormy seas fading before disappearing all together.

_Sleep in heavenly peace…_

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and leaned against the top of the incubator, pressing is hand against the top just above John’s heart. It looked too much like a coffin, apart from being transparent, and it hurt deep inside that he couldn’t touch John anymore.

The medical staff slowly filtered out of the room, and a new set of footprints stepped in. The man stopped behind Sherlock, and cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything.

“You’ve been sick. No wonder you haven’t visited,” Sherlock said, surprised at himself that his voice hadn’t cracked.

“Just a cold, brother mine,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock remained standing, keeping his eyes on John’s sleeping form.

“Go on then,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft shuffled his feet— _odd._

Sherlock turned around to face his brother, and relaxed his face.

“What?”

Mycroft was avoiding his gaze, but only for a moment, and then he looked up, his face grave.

“We haven’t been able to get the antibiotic fully completed. It may take longer—.”

“John doesn’t have longer,” Sherlock spat.

“We’re doing all we can—.”

“Well apparently not.”

Footsteps squeaked from the hall, and Lestrade appeared in the doorway, puffing from a run.

“Sherlock, we got a sighting of Jacob. How do you want to handle this?”

Sherlock straightened up and looked at John. He pressed his hand against the top, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. As satisfied as he could get, he turned back to Lestrade and walked towards him.

Mycroft followed, pulling out his phone and inhaling slightly.

“Mycroft just got the update. I’m surprised you got it first,” Sherlock said to Lestrade.

Lestrade shrugged. “We should get going.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Lestrade gave him a nod, and then left. Sherlock turned to Mycroft. He cleared his throat and looked at the ground for a moment before looking at his brother, hardening his face.

“Please hurry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft was taken aback from the politeness, but didn’t get a chance to speak as Sherlock turned on his heal and walked in a rush to the elevator.

_Time for a little midnight chase._

*            *            *

It had been so simple really. One picture of Jacob had the New Scotland Yard, Mycroft’s minions, and Sherlock in the outskirts of London cornering him. He hadn’t even tried to run.

It turned out that Jacob _was_ Ronald Silken. They had never been seen together, and he had transformed his appearance and manner just enough to fool all of the recruits. He kept an eye on everything, and then supposedly had reported to Silken, who was just himself—a man with multiple personality disorder.

It had been so simple—not something Sherlock had expected.

There had been a connection to Moriarty, however Silken, or Jacob or whoever, had said it was just a coincidence. He had worked with networks from Moriarty’s web, but had never actually met him. He had heard about the Hansel and Gretel fairytale case, and obsessed over it.

“It was so easy,” Silken had sneered at Sherlock. His smirk was purely disgusting, his face distorted in a mess of facial expressions and eye twitches. “You just wanted it to be clever. I heard you like to make things complicated, plays as a nice flaw, wouldn’t you say?”

“Then who are you? What character are you, in your little story?” Sherlock had asked before the police had shown up.

Silken had giggled. “What don’t you guess? Or are fairytales not your forte?”

“Not my forte,” Sherlock had agreed. “But I have a source—well, sources. So let’s see…Jacob: just your sidekick, keeps an eye on things…how about the mirror on the wall?”

Silken had giggled again. “Very good Holmes. Any one else?”

“Well Kingston had the evil queen’s name, so you’re not the antagonist of the story are you?”

“Nope!” Silken pranced a few steps back. “Guess again.”

Sherlock had been baffled for only a second, and Silken had continued talking, hitting a nerve.

“You don’t know it, you don’t know it!”

“Shut up—.”

“Your lover’s gonna die, your lover’s gonna die—.”

“Shut—.”

“Hit a nerve did I, hit a nerve, did _I_?” Silken had sung.

Sherlock had glared at him, mentally noticing the faint sirens in the distance.

“Once upon a time, there was a lonesome genius who fell in love with a prince,” he giggled again and skipped in a circle. Sherlock had nearly laughed—it was so ridiculous but needed to finish this. He had solved it—he had found Silken, the man responsible for shooting John.

“And the genius what? Realizes he’s an idiot when the prince dies before he could save him?” Sherlock suggested mockingly.

Silken had froze and glared at Sherlock. “Oh no, no no no no. He doesn’t die. The prince falls under a death like sleep, and the genius gives away his intellect in a exchange for this.”

Silken had reached in his pocket and pulled out a glass bottle of clear fluid.

“And what is that?” Sherlock had asked slowly.

“The antibiotic, of course.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Silken grinned. “I have people. Just like you.”

“Why would you have that?”

“Because if there’s a mistake, or an emergency on a subject, it’s a nice safety. Works like a charm.”

Just then the police had swarmed in and although Silken was surrounded, he had grinned wickedly at Sherlock.

“Give it to me.” Sherlock had demanded.

“And why would I do that?”

Sherlock had started to move towards him, when Silken had thrown against the wall. It had shattered, and the potential precious serum had dripped to the floor.

Sherlock had rounded to Silken, only to have him standing on the edge of the warehouse, a seven-foot jump below.

“So long—.”

“Wait!”

Silken had waited, and looked up. Sherlock had changed his manner and slouched his shoulders.

“Which character were you?”

Silken had grinned and hoped of the ledge back to the floor. “A name that if you say it three times, I should appear.”

Sherlock had bit back a disbelieving scoff and furrowed his brows, and thought.

He had realized it, after recalling his conversation with John, and then said it.

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

Silken had smiled wide, but then the police had entered the building, and before Silken could go to the window, he was surrounded, Lestrade coming up behind him and handcuffing him.

Sherlock was now frustrated as he headed back to the hospital late Christmas morning. It had been too simple—he could have solved it sooner. There wasn’t much to solve, but as he headed back to John, he recalled on the story of Rumpelstiltskin and Snow White, and from now on didn’t really like fairytales.

He walked towards the elevator and waited for it in silence, Lestrade and Sally beside him.

“You didn’t have to come with me.”

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Form what he heard, that man’s a creep,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock only hummed, and the elevator doors opened.

Two men in suits exited, towing Regina with them in cuffs. Sherlock blocked their way and he quirked an eyebrow for an explanation.

“She was in on it too, sir.”

Sherlock looked at Regina, and noticed her whole manner had changed. Her eyes were fierce and her posture was confident, unlike how she was upstairs.

Sherlock smirked that she got caught, then realized something and his eyes widened. Quickly he stared down at her murderously, and said, “You kept giving John the drug.”

“Well of course,” Regina confessed. “It wasn’t much of a challenge.”

_How did I miss that?_

Sherlock’s lip curled but before he could respond, Lestrade grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him into the elevator.

“Let’s see John, all right.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply with anger, and remained silent. He rode the elevator in silence, and quickly existed it onto the main floor. Ahead of him, he could see Dr. Robbins, Margaret, and surprisingly Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and even Mycroft.

He quickened his pace and stopped in front of them, quickly glancing at John, who appeared as normal as he could be.

“What is it?”

He turned to Molly, who was avoiding his gaze, but he could tell she wanted to cry. Mrs. Hudson was next to her, putting on a comforting smile yet it was strained. He faced the doctor, and raised his eyebrows, silently asking what was wrong.

Dr. Robbins raised her chin and met his eyes. “His kidneys are failing, and it’s not looking like they will recover,” she started slowly.

“But they could—he could get better.”

“It’s very unlikely he could come back from this.”

Sherlock stared at the people around him, his vision blurring around the edges. Firm arms wrapped around his shoulders and he straightened up. He turned to John, and looked at him in the incubator, noticing just how worse he had gotten in twelve hours.

“How, er, how long?” Sherlock whispered.

“It could be any time. His vitals continue to drop, and if we were to take him off the ventilator, it’d be faster, if you want us to do so, we could. We can remove the incubator too,” Robbins explained softly.

“Please…”

Margaret walked in and removed the top as Sherlock slowly stepped to his left side. He sat down and looked at his hand, wanting to take it.

“You can hold his hand. Not much harm could be done now…”

Sherlock took it and stroked it gently. It was cold, and limp—completely unlike John. He let out a shaky breath and brought John’s hand to his lips, pressing them against it before placing it back on the bed. He could feel the presences of every one behind him, and closed his eyes, willing this to all be just a dream.

He opened them and looked at John’s face. He was so relaxed, apart from the ventilator tube; he looked like he could just be sleeping. Sherlock straightened up and pulled out the paper John had given him, and slowly opened it up with one hand.

_Sherlock,_

_I’m only writing this just to be safe. I hope with all my might you don’t have to read this, but I’ll feel better if it’s written, in case you have to. I want you to know from me—or from my writing—that you were the oddest yet most extraordinary man that I have ever known, and to top it off, the man I fell in love with. Yes, you git, love. We’ve been through hell and I almost had to live the rest of my days without you, knowing how I felt. But a miracle brought you back—even if it was all your doing—you came back to me and I wish I could do the same for you._

_You’re the best man, the most human being I have ever known, and I will always love you. I love you Sherlock Holmes. Please remember that. I love you._

_Always yours,_

_John_

Sherlock inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. His eyes stung and his throat felt like something was stuck in it, but he swallowed tightly and shakily exhaled.

Robbins entered and went around to John’s other side.

“Will you want him off the ventilator?”

Sherlock sniffed and nodded. Robbins and Margaret gently pulled the tube out of John’s throat and he weakly coughed before going still. They cleaned everything up and then slowly left the room, Robbins lagging behind.

“It could be a while…”

Sherlock only nodded, and then Robbins left. He could hear the others murmuring, Mycroft sneezing, and Lestrade trying to stifle a yawn. The door closed and then all he could hear was the slow beep of the monitor, the slow descent each vital was taking, and the slow beats John’s heart was making.

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his forehead against John’s hand. He sniffed again, but a few tears leaked out and trailed down his cheek, pooling onto the alabaster blanket. His shoulders shuddered and he let out a choked sob.

“Oh, John…” Sherlock wept, the tears not stopping and streaming down his face. The heart monitor let out a low alarm, and Sherlock looked up. John’s heart beat and vitals were dropping—Robbins was right, any minute now.

Sherlock wiped his face and stood up. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, looking down at John’s face. John’s mouth was open and his breaths were becoming shorter. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to his forehead, breathing in his scent one last time.

“It’s okay, John. I’m here, I’m here.”

The heart line flattened into a continuous beep, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out. He whimpered softly and pressed his lips against John’s, kissing them lightly for the first time.

The heart line beeped once, and then was flat again, but Sherlock didn’t notice. He let out a sob and clutched at John, burying his face into the space between his shoulder and neck.

There as another beep, and then another.

Sherlock stilled and glanced up. The heart line was beeping again…

Sherlock sat up and looked down at John; his eyes were moving slightly under his lids, and his chest was moving. Sherlock looked out the door just as Mycroft hurried in, the doctor behind him and everyone else hesitantly following them.

“What’s happening?”

Mycroft’s face was soft and relieved, which Sherlock was having trouble comprehending.

“My team managed to create the antibiotic. Anthea will be here any minute now.”

Sherlock looked at Dr. Robbins. She smiled at him.

“It seems Dr. Watson’s not going anywhere. He sure is a fighter.”

Sherlock swallowed nervously just as Margaret walked in, holding a syringe.

“It’s here!”

Margaret hurried to John’s left side and quickly injected the antibiotic. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, and as John’s vitals began to increase, everyone exhaled with relief.

Sherlock remained tense and looked down at John.

“He won’t be conscious for a little bit. Why don’t you—,” Margaret started.

“Wait…” Sherlock said, keeping his gaze on John. John’s eyes moved under his lids, and he slowly flickered them open. His gaze fell instantly on Sherlock and he smiled weakly. He coughed and then his smile widened, as did his eyes.

“You solved it,” John whispered hoarsely. Sherlock stared into the oceanic storm before he let out a laugh and nodded.

“John—.” Sherlock trailed off and licked his lips. He quickly leaned down and pressed his lips to John’s, pressing firm yet gentle and reluctant at the same time. John slowly raised his hand and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, stroking his with his thumb as he weakly kissed back.

“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here.”

The crowd whispered with relief and smiles, and gradually left the two alone.

Lestrade stepped forward. “It’s like a Christmas miracle. A fairy tale ending,” he said teasingly.

Sherlock looked at him with a confused look, and John nudged him.

“You know,” he whispered slowly. “A happy ever after. Fairytales usually end that way.”

Sherlock scoffed lightly, but a smile was tugging at his lips. John tugged weakly on his coat, and Sherlock leaned back in, kissing him deeply. John hummed against his lips, and Lestrade left, muttering about needing sleep.

John pulled back. “I’m going to fall asleep again.”

A worried look flashed in Sherlock’s eyes, and John squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, just wake me up if you start to worry. Though not too often.”

“All right. But first…” Sherlock leaned in and kissed John again. “We have so much catching up, John. It’s been so long since we got together.”

“We really got together then? And didn’t kiss right away?” John whispered teasingly.

“You got shot.” Sherlock accused.

John laughed lightly and closed his eyes. “Well, then we need to catch up.”

“I’ll wake you up with a kiss,” Sherlock promised.

John chuckled. “Like Snow White.” At the sight of Sherlock’s confused face, John smiled.

“Go read it while I sleep. It’s a lovely story.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Better idea—why don’t you sleep beside me? I could use the company.”

Sherlock didn’t protest, and tucked himself against John’s side, carefully avoiding his wound and IV tubes. He rested his face against John’s temple, and breathed him in.

“No more dying, John.” Sherlock whispered.

“Okay. I’ll be more careful.” John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s cheek and took his hand.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Happy Christmas, John. I love you too.”

John shifted and looked up at him. “You read it.”

Sherlock nodded. “From now on you tell me. I don’t want to have to read something like that again.”

“All right, I promise, I’ll say it from here on out.”

“Good.”

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and cuddled closer to him. He smiled as he slowly fell asleep, the lights around the room glowing gold, encasing the two in merry warmth and love.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it folks, hope you enjoyed! Big thanks to my sister for editing it minutes before I published it. You can find her at heavenlymindpalace.tumblr.com and me on maeerin.tumblr.com
> 
> Leave comments and subscribe to my account for more :)
> 
> Just to clarify, the 7 "dwarves" were Mycroft (Sneezy/Stealthy), Lestrade (Sleepy), Molly (Bashful), Dr. Robbins (Doc), Margaret (Dopey), Sally (Grumpy), and Mrs. Hudson (Happy), and John was Snow White and Sherlock was Prince Charming obviously.


End file.
